Melody
by planet p
Summary: After the events of Island of the Haunted, Jarod is returned to the Center and Miss Parker loses a bet. WARNING: Rated for non-graphic brother/sister pairing, at the top of the list, and violent thoughts and thoughts concerning self-harm!
1. Chapter 1

**Melody** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

**Melody Ezabella Railly**

I don't know how he did it, how it worked out, but it did, much to my dismay, which I was forced to withhold.

There were tests that had to be done, but he'd obviously gotten around those as well, or just faked them.

I couldn't think about it too much. It seemed, these days, that all I really felt like doing was trying not to throw up, or cry, which I would never do in front of him.

One day, I vowed, I would end him!

And one day was always one day closer, and that was my life.

* * *

**Jarod**

As a child, I'd always thought – one day – that we'd just sort of end up together, you know, Miss Parker and I, thought that they'd see that that was what they wanted, and forget that that was maybe what we wanted to.

But that never happened.

And I never did find out my real last name.

Or meet my mother.

And now I never would.

* * *

**Melody Ezabella Railly**

He was my brother, for the love of Christ!

And we were married!

And, God, it just made me sick to my stomach!

In all honesty – I would _rather_ have taken death over this!

But, in the end, that wasn't my decision to make – because I'd lost – and Jarod was back where he belonged, back home, back at the Center.

I just hadn't been the one to bring him back.

* * *

**Broots**

In the end, I couldn't say anything, could I? If I did – if I dared – it wouldn't just be my own life on the line, it would be my daughter, Debbie's, life too. So I said nothing.

And consoled myself that Sydney hadn't either.

* * *

**Melody Ezabella Railly**

I don't think I've ever hated – or could ever hate – anyone as much as I hate my brother.

Most days, I wish he'd died, or that he'd never been born.

If Daddy hadn't left, I told myself, he never would have allowed it. But my real father – supposed real father – Raines, wasn't in the slightest fazed.

One day, I'd end him too. Right after little brother.

Just now, I was listening to a particularly tiresome lecture of Cox's concerning alcohol and child bearing, the punch line of which was really: Alcohol is strictly prohibited! But really, I just wanted Cox prohibited!

Even if this wasn't my house – strictly – it was still my house, because it was my husband's house.

Typically, the housemaid, Mayoree – who was from Thailand, or so I'd heard – interrupted with tea and biscuits.

To which Cox responded, agitated, "I'm not English, love, I don't fancy tea."

And I replied, "The tea is splendid, thank you, Mayoree!"

For which I was sent a particularly unfavourable – withering – glance by Cox, that, to my surprise, warmed me immensely.

I knew Cox, of course, to take coffee, and not tea – under any circumstance – as it was his mother whom he remembered had liked tea, in which case, he did not – merely out of principle. For you see, Cox and my brother were famous friends, because they'd both suffered appalling childhoods at the hands of appalling adoptive parents, for which I, of course, was ever so appalled and apologetic.

It was, of course, all the more saddening that they'd continued to suffer appalling childhoods, in my opinion, as opposed to merely simply just dying, though, I found, this was not the sort of thing one regularly shared with one's husband or, for that matter, one's doctor.

Which suited me finely.

* * *

**Sydney**

Melody told me that she hoped that the child, upon its birth, expired quite quickly of some atrocious affliction that commonly marred children of such arrangements, that was, she elaborated, incestuous arrangements, and then, beside herself, elapsed into a fit of giggles.

The housemaid promptly appeared, to nurse her well of her fit, and I watched all this, without offering a single comment, and thought, that perhaps, Melody had simply gone mad, after which, I was relieved to find, I was not particularly interested in neither tea nor biscuits, as much as the maid greatly insisted.

Following the maid's eventual departure, and Melody's recovery – I would not call her Mrs. Railly – Melody promptly leant over, so that we were of somewhat closer earshot than before, and declared her suspicions that her husband had been cheating on her with the maid, who should thus be dismissed – or disposed of – immediately, and without further ado.

"One ought not have to endure such a scandal!" Melody declared, with a giggle, and flopped backward – as though taken with a sudden, inexplicable faintness – onto the couch and its various expensive cushions.

Without glancing at her, I feared it would only provoke her further, I frowned, and asked her, in a low voice, "What are your thoughts, Melody?"

"I want to die," came Melody's bare response, and when I looked up and around and peered into her face, it was sullen – ostensibly, as she knew that it would not do to say such a thing and not to show some reaction – but underneath, it was merely empty, tired and sore and empty. And, for the first time, I believed her.

And maybe just, I wanted to too.

* * *

_My attempt at first person point of view _–_ which I never seem to write in, because I am awful at it _–_ from the perspective of varying characters._

_And, actually, I will completely understand if you hate this._


	2. Chapter 2

**Melody** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

_Four years later_

**Melody Ezabella Railly**

There have been times when I've wanted nothing more than to leave, just to leave.

I remember, once, when Lyle decided that I wasn't eating enough, so he got out his gun and pointed it at my head, and I swear Mayoree was hiding in the other room, too scared to come in and say anything in case he shot her, but I suppose it worked, because I started eating more, and Essie was born happy and healthy, despite my expectations.

This incident hadn't improved my waning opinion of Mayoree, but then, when at Easter, she walked into the living room, clearly excited, and presented me with the chocolates that Lyle had got her – to my horror and distaste and envy, the exact same _expensive_ brand he had gotten me – and declared her wish that we share them, I guess I figured that there was something, deep down inside, that was almost admirable about her, even though I had to endure her girlish giggling afterward.

Once Essie was born, I quickly realised that leaving was no longer an option, and I can't remember how much or how long I cried when Reagan – the child Brigitte had given birth to, and officially my baby brother – was taken away, and how mad I was at Lyle for acting as though nothing had happened, even though I strongly suspected, and still do, that Reagan is his son.

Looking at Essie now, at four years old, and already enrolled in a prestigious preschool and after preschool program with the Center – upon Lyle's insistence, I'd detested the idea vehemently – I realised that it was, now, more crucial than ever that I formulated a plan of escape – for my daughter's sake!

* * *

**Essie Bulla Railly**

I think Daddy is upset that I am a girl and not a boy. I know it sounds silly, and it's even sillier because I saw it on television, and Mommy says not to believe everything you see on television, and especially _The Jerry Springer Show_ (the maid likes to watch it) even though that wasn't where I saw it anyway, but why else would Daddy being avoiding me so much?

For example, he's started going to work early in the morning, before I even get up, and coming home late at night, when I'm already asleep.

We don't even have dinner together anymore, and then I don't even want to eat, but I don't want to make Mommy upset too, so I just have to force myself to eat, and I hate having to do it because it makes me feel sick.

Daddy says it's because work is really busy at the moment, but I don't think it is that at all, and when he is at home on the weekend he is always listening to The Platters or Jim Reeves or Connie Francis, or something else that is really old and I don't want to listen to because it is so old and it even makes me sad.

I think he does it to keep me away, and I want to shout at him, but then that will make him sad too, but maybe he is already sad because of all the sad music he listens to and because I am not a boy, and then I'd just make him even sadder, and that would be worse.

I wish he could just be my daddy again.

* * *

It's the weekend and Daddy isn't playing his sad, old music at the moment, and even though it's early – much earlier than I usually wake up – I'm not upset because Daddy had come to wake me up and he'd said that he had a surprise for me, and now we're walking quietly through the house together toward the kitchen and I am excited.

I wonder what the surprise could be. If Daddy is going to announce that we are going to be taking a vacation?

I am very excited. I really want it to be the vacation.

But it's just a stupid box!

We're alone in the kitchen, and I'm cold, and I don't think Mommy is even up.

I want to ask Daddy what's so surprising about a dumb cardboard box, but then I see what is inside the box, and want to scream.

A puppy!

I turn to Daddy, so happy I am almost jumping up and down. The puppy is lying on a special blanket for pets. "Can I touch her?" I ask excitedly.

Daddy nods, and I notice that he is smiling. "Him," he says quietly, as though he doesn't want to wake the sleeping puppy, who is going to wake up when I pick him up, or maybe it isn't the puppy but Mommy he doesn't want to wake up.

I shuffle closer to the cardboard box and bend over, and that is when I notice that the puppy isn't asleep, but that he is very still because he is scared. I want to say something to him to let him know that I won't hurt him, but then I would feel silly, because dogs don't understand human languages.

Daddy is talking to him in a language I don't know, and I wonder if Daddy knows he isn't talking English, but I don't ask. I didn't know that Daddy spoke any other languages, and I am proud, and I decide that I am going to learn Daddy's other language one day.

The puppy is warm and squishy when I pick him up, and I see that his little tail is tucked neatly against his belly. I don't want to hurt him, so I try to hold him like I've seen people holding babies on television, or those life-size baby dolls on the ads which always make heart swell with envy when I see them, because I really want one.

The puppy doesn't smell like me, and I suppose that is what dogs smell like, or maybe just the baby ones, but this is a clean puppy, and I love him so much already (even though I think I'd still like a baby doll so I can take it to bed with me when I go to sleep because I don't think Mommy would like me letting the puppy in my bed).

I carefully put the puppy back on its blanket in the cardboard box and look at Daddy. "What is his name?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," Daddy says. "I don't think he has a human name yet. I guess that means we'll just have to give him one."

I smile. I really want Daddy to pick the puppy's name, so I ask, "What do you think we should name him?"

Daddy looks at the puppy for a moment before he says, "What about Ketchup?"

I scrunch my face up. I don't like Ketchup, it isn't a real name, and I don't think Daddy is being serious. The puppy isn't even orange or red, but a yellow golden colour. I say, "I don't like Ketchup. It sounds silly. I think I'm going to call him Johnnie."

Daddy smiles and gets to his feet, but it isn't really a smile, it just looks like a smile, and I see the maid standing in front of the door, and she does not look pleased.

She says that she doesn't think that Mommy will be happy when she learns that Daddy has bought a puppy without consulting her first, and I hurry to cover the puppy's box, in case she tried to steal the puppy out of it and take it back to the shop. I really want to keep the puppy.

After that, the maid goes way to wake Mommy up, and later I can hear Mommy's loud yelling voice and I hate the maid for making Mommy yell at Daddy so he won't want to come home anymore, and will stay at work even longer, and I decide that I will call the puppy Ketchup because he doesn't even really look like a Johnnie and he is so quiet.

* * *

Later, Mommy tells me about my cousin, Jo Jo, who is my uncle, Ethan's son. Jo Jo is the same age as me, she says, and she says that one day she will take me to meet him.

She says that I can't tell anyone about Jo Jo, or that I know about Ethan, not even Daddy, or she will have to take the puppy back to the shop, and then someone else will buy him and I won't even be able to go and see him and I will never see him again.

I want to cry. I don't understand why Mommy is being so mean, just because she is mad at Daddy for doing something nice for me, but I promise that I will never tell anyone – not even Ketchup – about Jo Jo or Uncle Ethan, and Mommy frowns at me, though I suppose she is frowning at the name I have chosen for the puppy.

I don't tell her that Ketchup is the name that Daddy chose, and not me, and instead ask what Jo Jo's mommy's name is.

"Zoe," Mommy tells me, and I think that she doesn't like Jo Jo's mommy.

* * *

**Mayoree**

I remember the first time Mr. Railly asked me not to call him 'master' – though I still call his wife, Mrs. Railly, 'mistress' – and think that I should have known then not to trust his intentions, that all of the things that Mrs. Railly accused us of behind our backs would, by his instigation, eventually come to pass.

I am not stupid, but I do not want to lose this job, either, and I do not want to upset Mr. Railly, and I realise that, eventually, I will not fight this.

* * *

I have never trusted Mr. Railly, but lately I especially do not trust him with Essie. I do not understand why he has bought her a puppy, if it is to apologise for something he has done to hurt her, or to buy her affection or silence.

I start to think he has hit her, or worse, but she is happy and healthy and my suspicions are, as yet, unfounded.

I know that Mrs. Railly's and his relationship is turbid at the best of times, and that he buys her very nice things, and I often wonder why it is she doesn't just leave him, but, perhaps, she is also too far entrenched in the Center to back out now.

The Center is not a nice place, and it is certainly not all it is made out to be, and it is where Mr. Railly works, and most of Mrs. Railly's few friends, and I know, now, that Mrs. Railly had also worked for the Center, though I am unsure as to the extent of her involvement with this bad corporation.

At first, it is little things, like chocolates and presents at Easter and Christmas, and then being included in Easter and Christmas lunches and dinners, and then it is the occasional phrase in my native language – I am surprised at first, but then I suppose Mr. Railly has been blessed with a natural talent for languages – and then a pat on the hand, or the arm, and then a hug.

I do not want him to touch me, or even look at me the way he does sometimes – I don't want him to notice that I am a woman, I want to be nothing more than the servant – I want to yell at him so that he stops, I don't even care if he slaps me or hits me, but I am frightened, also, that he might do more than slap me or hit me, and then that he might hurt Mrs. Railly or Essie.

And, I realise, that as long as Mrs. Railly and Essie are still with him, that I could never leave, that I could never leave them with him, that, one day, I will have to find a way to send them away.

* * *

When I'm nervous or upset or angry and I can't breathe, I tell myself it is because there is a secret word that I have to speak when I walk into a room before I can breathe again, before the spell can be lifted.

The word is cheetah.

I silently utter the word, which means that I should be able to breathe again, except today it doesn't work.

I still can't breathe.

I slowly approach Mr. Railly's desk – not at all like Mrs. Railly's steady, determined walk – where he is reading a journal, which, though the cover is turned over, I know to be a psychology journal of some form, and I see, on the page turned to me, the name Green, and I realise that Sydney – Mrs. Railly's good friend – has written this.

"Yes, Mayoree?" he asks, shifting his gaze from the article he'd been reading to my face, and I am annoyed that he always pronounces my name the way he does, which is exactly how I would expect someone from my own country to pronounce it.

I don't speak and move around the desk, and he sees that I must have gently closed the door after myself, and he frowns.

"Is there something that you wish to discuss?" he asks, wincing, and I shake my head and wonder why he is wincing, and wonder if it is because he is afraid of me, though this is ridiculous, as it is me who is afraid of him.

I want to yell at him for yesterday, for even daring to sneak up behind me in the kitchen and put his arms around me, for dropping his hand to my leg, or, when I turned to him to stop him, for holding my arms tightly, or for kissing me.

Or, later, for coming into my room in the night and for trying to force me into something that I didn't want to do, or for ripping on my hair, or pulling out a gun and pressing it against my head like I knew he had Mrs. Railly, for telling me, when I struggled, "I'm not going to hurt you," as though he thought I would believe him with that gun pointed at my head, or perhaps merely as a warning not to struggle anymore unless I wanted to end up dead.

I want to yell at him for all of those things, not that he did force himself on me, in the end, but perhaps he'd been tired from work, or I'd struggled too much – though I did not think that this would be a problem for him, I did not think it would put someone like him (someone as dangerous as him) out – because he'd only ended up going to sleep.

But now that I have my in, and I cannot push it away. It is best this way, I tell myself. "What are you reading?" I ask at the last minute, and he smiles.

"Anything that isn't Bartholomew," he says, but the amusement quickly drops out of his voice at the sight of my confused face.

I do not know who this Bartholomew is, so I do not understand why he does not like this man.

"Nothing," he amends, closing the journal and placing it on the desk in front of him. "Something Sydney wrote." He shakes his head, and returns his glance to me.

I feel as though I'm going to be sick, but I force a smile.

"Do you hate me terribly?" he asks, frowning.

I shake my head. No. Yes, I hate him!

He frowns harder, as though there is a thought that he can see, but cannot catch, and drops his face to the floor.

I step toward him, and he reaches out and takes my hand in his left hand. I force down the urge to shiver, to run.

"You're very kind," he says, and then looks up from the floor and stands, before I can take a step backward, away from him, and, for a moment, we are standing very close.

He steps around me and lets my hand slip from his grasp to fall back at my side, and walks around his desk toward the door.

I quickly hurry after him, and he opens the door for me to go through, and then steps after me and pulls the door shut after him.

I stay standing idly in the hallway, but he does not say anything further to me, and strides away.

* * *

**Essie Bulla Railly**

Last night Daddy came home in time to read me a story before bed. He read me a book called _Chibby the Fish_, and asked how Johnnie was. I really wanted to tell him that the puppy's name was Ketchup, but then I got embarrassed, and just told him that he was fine.

Today, Mommy and I had afternoon snack with Daddy in the canteen at Daddy's work, which he calls the 'dining hall,' and Mommy talked to her friend, Sydney.

I made sure I sat down next to Daddy, and was pleased that I could read all of the posters, like the one next to the vending machine that had drinks in it.

I have almost finished my chocolate milkshake when Sydney leaves, and I watch the automatic doors open and then close again as Sydney walks through them, then another man who I think Mommy calls Bruce walks over, and Mommy and Bruce talk about someone called Debbie, but only when Daddy has stood up and walked away to take a call on his cell phone across the canteen.

Instead of listening to Mommy and Bruce's conversation, I watch Daddy talking on his cell phone, and then Daddy has shut his cell phone and is standing beside me again, and he is smiling and looking at me, and I have a funny feeling in my stomach, but Daddy only sits down in the chair next to me, but not the chair he had been sitting in before, which is on my other side, and continues watching me.

"Listen, darling," he begins, and I stare at him, because I've never heard Daddy call anyone 'darling' before, not even Mommy, and even though he is smiling, he is not really smiling, just like before, but then he smiles properly, and gets to his feet and waves at me with his fingers and walks away again.

I don't take my eyes off him, sure that something is wrong, but he only calls someone on his cell phone and is talking again.

* * *

**Melody Ezabella Railly**

I do not like the way I see Lyle looking at Essie in the dining hall, but I do not say anything, now, or later, at home.

Lyle walks into our bedroom and sit down at the end of the bed, as though he doesn't intend on staying long, and I just feel like hitting him, or screaming at him. I know what is going on between Mayoree and him, but somehow I cannot bring myself to say anything.

As I shuffle closer to him across the mattress, he takes a chocolate from the box I had been sitting with, watching television in bed, which makes me frown. Of course, I know that he is diabetic, so he can't eat a lot of chocolate or sweet things, but what is strange is that, in the past, he'd never shown the slightest inclination for _wanting_ to eat chocolates or other sweet things, save the occasionally jelly baby or jelly dinosaur.

For a moment, I want to say something, or slap his hand away when he takes another chocolate, or just take the whole box away from him, but, once again, I remain silent.

Then, suddenly, I am taken by the horrific thought that he has somehow learned of my plan to escape, to leave him, and has decided that tonight is the night to put a stop to my plans, once and for all.

He glances up from the box of chocolates and meets my now empty gaze, and I cannot read his expression, and hope he is not just about to kill me, though I know that if he is, that I will not give up easily.

But he only tells me that he's made dinner reservations for the seafood restaurant where'd I'd worked one break from high school in 1977, which he seems to think was where we first met, though I don't recall ever meeting, and suppose he is slipping a cog or two, before it strikes me that perhaps he plans to have Essie snatched whilst we are out, and now I can only think of Essie.

Essie will be coming, he adds, looking, for a moment, pained, and further adds that a babysitter will not be required, as though I'd been thinking of promptly calling one up now, at 10 P.M., to arrange for Saturday, when we were going to dinner at the seafood restaurant.

He looks at me properly, and I wonder what it is he is planning. He laughs shortly, almost amused, and leans closer. "I need…" he begins, but doesn't finish, tired.

I stare at him for a moment, at his eyes, slowly drawing further away. "What do you need?" I ask.

He laughs, bitterly amused, and tears spring to his eyes.

Fearing a grand manipulation, but no less surprised, I tell him, "I'm your wife." I want to add, "Mayoree is not," but I do not.

"And you're also my sister," he says, as though ready to laugh again, and stands quickly and takes another chocolate and turns swiftly from me and walks toward the door.

I glare after him, impossibly angry. He had not seemed bother by this fact in the past, as we both knew, and now, as he was trying to use it to justify a transgression, it was nothing more than an appalling overblown cop out!

I lifted the box of chocolates from the bed and hurled it across the room, but, by then, he'd stepped out into the hall, and the box hit the door and scattered chocolates across the expensively rugged floor, just as, on the television, the crowd broke into loud applause.

God damn it, he was mine, not Mayoree's! He was my brother!

I bent double and sobbed into my thighs, tears burning into the pale skin of my legs through the thin material of the short satin chemise and patterned sheer stockings I wore.

He was mine!

* * *

**Mayoree**

I'd never had any reason to believe that Mr. Railly so much as suspected me of a secret agenda – that I was working for T&C Conglomerate, a cooperation named for Tazu and Chiyo, the two Japanese exchange students Mr. Railly had murdered back in the eighties whilst attending the same college, foundered by the families of all of his victims, and that I was, in fact, to be his executioner – and I had no reason to believe that he would ever change, or that I would be spared of this mission.

Until, a week after one of Mrs. Railly's and his arguments, I walk into the dining room, bottle of Romanian wine and wine glass sitting on the dining table, I find Mrs. Railly sitting, staring into space.

She reaches for the wineglass and drains its contents, and promptly pours herself another glass, then, when she has finished that glass too, she drops her hand to her lap and picks up the portable telephone and presses a button which replays the messages, of which there is only one.

"Just phoning to say I won't be home tonight, things have just gotten rather more busy here, and," a sigh, "I guess, goodbye."

Mrs. Railly looks at me, eyes wide and wild. "Why would he do that?" she asks, as though the answer was one she'd been seeking all her life.

"I do not understand what you are asking me," I reply. "What do you think it is the master has done?"

At this, Mrs. Railly laughs splendidly. "Bastard!" she roars. "You fucking bastard!" But then she is tired, and she is crying.

I just stand there, as confused as ever, and suddenly I feel as though I too want to cry.

* * *

**Jarod**

When Lyle suggested that we go out, to find the rest of my family, I knew two things with certainty. One: was that this expedition was not sanctioned by the remainder of the corporation, and two: that I would not assist Lyle in capturing my family.

I was also fairly certain that, once outside, that I was smart enough to get away, and never be heard of again, at least, until I wished to be.

Though, this was not how it was to be. One: because Lyle had apparently decided that Angelo's help wouldn't go astray, and, therefore, that he would be tagging along, and two: because he then decided that it would be a good thing, when we were sitting in a motel somewhere – to be honest, I couldn't care less where, beyond that it was away from my family, and the Center – to blow his brains out with an Empath in the other room.

After that, I decided it was a good idea to change motels, and put the matter of the government-issue weapon out of my mind, as I now had to deal with Angelo who would not stop crying, which disturbed me more than I could articulate, and then that stupid gun.

What did that gun mean? Did it mean anything at all? Or had Lyle just wanted me to think that it did?

I still cannot believe that I am out – again! And that Angelo is here with me! Now, the only one missing is Miss Parker.

We leave another motel and drive most of the morning. It has been days, and Angelo has stopped crying, though his eyes still have that shine about them.

We pull into a roadhouse to fill up the tank and for lunch. We've been listening to the same CD on loop because Angelo hadn't wanted to change it, and I am glad when I can turn it off. If I had to listen to Baroque Moods one more minute I probably would have ejected the disc and thrown it out the window!

I make sure all the doors are locked and Angelo and I walk across the dirty, cracked concrete toward the roadhouse restaurant, and then I see, through the glass, a familiar face, and break into a run, tugging Angelo after me.

The little girl, who is three or four, stands silently beside her mother, whom Angelo and I wrap our arms around, and the little girl stands, still holding her mother's hand, and stares ahead of her, secretly longing for small, enclosed space of the car, for that last semblance of familiarity, or normality, of yesterday.

* * *

**Essie Bulla Railly**

Mommy says that Daddy left us, that he left to be with another woman who he loved better, but I know that Daddy didn't leave us to be with someone else.

Mommy doesn't say that he is dead, but I know that he is, and, for the first time, I realise that he was never my daddy. You see, I can feel Mommy's loss, but it isn't the same for me. The part of me that feels Mommy's loss, doesn't feel Daddy's loss the way I know it should, more like the way Mommy does, even though she acts like she's happy that there won't be anymore arguments.

I am only four, but there are things that I suddenly feel that I do not understand.

I do not understand how Mommy and Daddy could have been siblings, though I know that they were. I do not understand why they were married.

I do not understand why Daddy was not my father, though I know that I am not like Mommy and Daddy, or even Uncle Ethan. I am like Mommy's friend, Jarod.

I know who the gun that Daddy shot himself with belongs to, though I am not supposed to know that Daddy shot himself, or that he is dead. I know of someone else who was shot with the same gun.

I want Daddy to come back, I want to be able to talk to the boy I met in the dining hall at the Center who called me 'darling,' but I know that Daddy is gone, and that the boy is gone too.

There will be no more arguments between Mommy and Daddy, I know, but there will be many more arguments.

I stand holding Mommy's hand and wonder why Daddy couldn't just talk to Mommy, to me, to Sydney, to anyone, and figure I will never know the answer now.

I will never know the answer why I upset Daddy, I know, or why Daddy upset himself over me.

I think about Ketchup, scared and alone in the car, and I want to go to him, but now Mommy is scared and alone too.

I hold Mommy's hand tighter. It won't always be easy, and it won't always be happy, but I know that she won't be alone because she has me.

* * *

**William Raines**

How simple it was when it all fell into place, how simple the troubles of a damaged child, how simple the comforts, and how skewed, how mistaken those comforts were.

Maybe I'd always known, in some way, maybe I'd always seen this ending, but had only denied it. Maybe, most of all, the blame lay with me.

What has passed cannot be undone, but, finally, perhaps, the children are now free.

And an ending is only a new beginning born, or an old beginning reborn.

* * *

_So, yeah, this is the__ end, and it sucks! =(_

_The tenses are really messed up, and I'm pretty sure they're different to the tenses in the last chapter, but tenses probably aren't really my thing._

_Tell me what you thought__, anyway?_


End file.
